


A million invisible threads

by bitsandbobsandstuff



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American History, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Heavy Angst, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 17:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11925837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsandbobsandstuff/pseuds/bitsandbobsandstuff
Summary: Covering seven decades, and highlighting pivotal moments in the life of the Winter Soldier, from the perspective of someone who stood in the background and followed him through it all. How do you keep from losing yourself to the darkness, when it’s so much easier to just let go?





	A million invisible threads

**Author's Note:**

> Some historical manipulation taken in some places, just go with it. Diverges from canon and makes some assumptions in others.

In every life, there are millions of invisible threads connecting each person to themselves. Some lives are happy and fulfilled, the threads strong and secure. Other lives are filled with unimaginable grief and horror, the threads damaged and broken. Every decision made creates a choice leading down a new path, the implications reverberating across the span of a lifetime. The threads of any one life can fray and break, but they can be brought back together, held in the hand of someone you never know is there.

She is always on the edges, dancing along the periphery of his situation. She is not there to stop the worst from happening, she knows and accepts that sometimes the worst outcome is the only option.

No one ever notices her.

She fades in and out of the memories of all those around her, an effortless talent that is simultaneously effective and tragic. The years pass as James Buchanan Barnes spirals further and further, loses more of himself with ever step he takes, and she picks up the broken threads he sheds after every mission. Tying them together, tucking them away, and searching for the opportunity to lay them down in front of him, reminding him of who is. She asks nothing in return, except that he keep fighting, keep his fingertips stretched toward the light, instead of descending into the bleak darkness of oblivion he desperately craves.

He will never actually remember her. Every interaction, no matter how large or small, is torn from his brain at his return. But while every experience with her feels new, what his handlers are unable to understand, is that even when something leaves the mind, it can remain in the heart. Muscle memory cannot be altered. In the heat of his moments with her, the feeling would always come, sharp and visceral, but heartbreakingly brief, making him believe if he just _focused_ , if he just tried harder, he could find the answer.

Sometimes he is so desperate to remember, he could scream with the pain. But most often, the guilt is so intense, he is eager to forget.  


* * *

**_1956 - Budapest, Hungary_ **

It is oppressively hot for late August. Pitch black thunderclouds roll across the sky, the flashes of lightning the only source of light the night would offer. Every noise seems muffled, the air pressing down, too thick to allow any sound to cut through. There is a feeling of tense anticipation, like the world is holding its breath before the storm begins to rage.

The whining sound of rusted metal breaks the silence, when the backdoor of the steel factory cracks open, a sliver of light hitting the broken cement, before closing tightly again. The outline of a figure darts into the night, but he knows instantly it is not the face he seeks. He shifts his weight from side to side, searching for a respite from the unrelenting heat, and finding none. He is dressed to fill the shadows, to blend and disappear, covered head to toe in black. A cloth cap conceals his dark hair, a plain cotton shirt is tucked into loose trousers, his gun holster cinched tightly around his waist. A threadbare overcoat is draped over his tall frame, falling to his knees where it touches the tops of his heavy combat boots.

Pulling on black gloves to complete the picture and camouflage the silver of his left hand, the Winter Soldier unconsciously flexes the fingers, trying to feel something in the metal digits, still unsure and wary of the arm after more than a decade living with it. His mission tonight is simple - find and eliminate an influential leader in the underground Hungarian resistance, before he can begins an uprising. It was necessary to remove him before he could find success.

He remains still, his body flush against the bullet-riddled exterior of a crumbling brick wall, two rusty oil drums stacked next to him offering additional coverage. Sweat streams down his back, and the cotton shirt is drenched, the thick overcoat never allowing even the smallest breath of air to permeate. His hand grips tightly to the pistol he holds level at his chest. He feels a touch of nervousness, an emotion he wasn't aware he had, something he hasn't felt in years.

It is unfamiliar and unsettling. He waits.

There is a quiet shuffle and without turning his head, he flicks his eyes to the left, seeing a woman walking quickly in his direction, her hands deep in her pockets. He watches as her eyes glide over the corners and crevices of the alley, falling on the shadows where he stands, and lingering for a moment, before she disappears through another door behind him. She looks familiar, but he acknowledges to himself that everyone here looks the same. A common side effect of communism.

The factory door creaks again, and this time two people slip through into the night. The taller of the pair is clearly an older man, and he walks with a limp, a hat pulled low over his face. He places an arm protectively around the thin shoulders of the young girl at his side, hurrying her along. The Winter Soldier recognises his mission, and with a silent movement, steps to the side of the oil barrel and raises his pistol, quickly finding his aim. His heartbeat speeds up, thrumming in his chest, and his breathing becomes harsh to his own ears. He recites the directions in his head. Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

He reaches a gloved hand to his face, scrubbing furiously at his forehead, wiping away the sweat that trickles into his eyes. Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger. Why was his hand shaking? _Finish this_ , he commands himself. There is nothing in front of him but unfathomable pain, if he returns without success. He has no other option. Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger. 

"That's his daughter," comes the whisper, quiet but forceful. "She is seven-years-old. Her mother was murdered in front of her eyes last year, when she disagreed with a soldier on the street. He cut her throat and laughed while the daughter screamed, covered in her mother's blood. She has no one else in the world. Would you deprive this girl of her only remaining family? You are a better man than this James Barnes."

The sound of the voice shocks him, and he spins soundlessly, pistol still held aloft, and she is so close to him the pistol bumps her nose. His hand gives a small tremble, but he keeps it held to her face. She watches him calmly, and he experiences a vague sense of unease at the recognition he finds in her eyes. "A missed shot, that's all you need." Her voice is nearly inaudible, but his ears perk. "They will forgive this time."

"If you knew anything, then you would know that's not true," he spits back bitterly, the English sounding rough in his ears. "They do not forgive. And they do not forget." He pauses a moment more, before shifting his arm away from her, pointing back toward the target. His skill is so unnerving, his aim so precise, he barely needs to look.

He cocks the gun, his eyes still locked on her. His finger twitches on the trigger, then stills. His mind is spinning, trying to choose a path. She sees the blatant despair in his eyes, when he imperceptibly adjusts his aim to the left, before he snaps his finger back. The bullet slams into the man's shoulder, a non-threatening flesh wound, dropping him to his knees with a cry. James Barnes lowers his hand, knowing full well what's in store for him when he returns from this mission without the kill. His eyes still on hers, he sees her gaze soften, and he shakes his head. He steels his nerves before he can make a different choice, tucks the pistol into his belt, and bolts in the opposite direction.

There is a terrific crash of thunder, as the heavens open, the rain plummeting down and washing away every trace of his presence.  


* * *

**_1963 - Dallas, Texas_ **

Throngs of people line the avenue, the ebb and flow of excited voices echoing off the brick buildings and weaving through the side streets, as the crowds press forward to catch a glimpse of him, the edges of their red, white, and blue flags snapping cheerfully in the late November breeze. The motorcade drives slowly, the black suited man laughing and waving confidently, the sun glinting off the body of his midnight blue convertible. His wife is a serene vision beside him, a rounded box hat adorning her brunette hair, her lovely frame covered in pastel pink.

More than a mile away, a warehouse sits abandoned and empty, the concrete slabs in front broken and battered, as weeds and tree roots overtake the area, fighting for space. Windows span the face of the building, many of them cracked or destroyed, completing the picture of emptiness. Perched on the rooftop, the Winter Soldier is bent on one knee, a sniper's rifle propped on the second rung of the cracked iron railing lining the east side of the building. Head bent down, he peers through his scope, watching the slow progression of cars, and waiting. He is far from the crush of people, so far in fact, there are no police bothering to patrol the area, the distance creating an assumed deterrent. No ordinary man would take a shot from this distance, but he is no ordinary soldier.

He no longer bothers to cover his metal arm. He's grown accustomed to the perpetually numb feeling, he compensates in his movements for the extra weight pulling down the left side of his body, and he knows instinctively the reason behind each faint click of the gears when he flexes. He accepts it now, embraces it. Any added clothing simply restricts his ability to move, and since the metal will not reflect sunlight, he knows there is no chance of being seen at this distance.

His ears prick at the sound of gravel crunching, three small pebbles skittering across the roof, and his hand goes automatically for the pistol strapped over his shoulder, pulling it and standing to face the intruder in one fluid motion. Both hands full, he trains both the pistol and his rifle on a woman standing still in the bright sunlight, her hands held up in a defensive surrender position.

His voice sounds strange and damaged to his own ears when he speaks, the words tumbling out, sounding inherently wrong in some way. His cadence is stilted, the inflections are placed on the wrong syllables of each word. He is curious, in a detached and emotionless way, as he thinks on it for a moment. When was the last time he really spoke, made a sound that was something other than a scream? He doesn't remember.

"What do you want?"

"To help you make the right decision." She stands a fair distance away, and her voice is soft, but his sensitive hearing catches it easily. There's a flutter in his chest at the sound, tapping a vein of feeling he wasn't aware he had, but he stamps it down immediately. He has no time for this.

"Leave. You are not on my list, but I will add you if necessary." He flings the comment at her coldly, and cocks the hammer on his pistol, expecting her to back away.

"James, please." The sound is still faint, her voice breaking slightly, and he feels a small tug of interest at the name she utters. "He's a good man, a great man, please don't do this. He can make the world a better place, you need to let him. I'm begging you, please. You've missed before James, you can do it again."

He tilts his head as he watches her through narrowed eyes, seeming to ponder the question, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. He wonders again at the name, why she keeps saying it, why it makes him feel as though he's heard it before. But then the curtains close, and a blank look slides in place. "I don't miss." 

With the statement, he slides the pistol into his holster and turns his back on her, evidently not viewing her as any real threat. Dropping back to one knee, he rebalances the rifle and finds his target through the cross-hairs, before forcing his muscles to relax, his breathing to slow. He can hear the sharp intake of her breath, but he ignores it. The weapon has a silencer, and there is only a muted thud when he squeezes the trigger, his broad shoulder anticipating and absorbing the strong recoil. He waits for a moment, continuing to watch the result through the scope lens. Even at this distance, he can hear the sound of screaming when it begins. There is a choked sob from the woman behind him, who has still done nothing more than watch.

Methodically, he breaks down the rifle, quickly taking it apart and packing it into the carrier that wraps around his body, from his back to his chest. He picks up the bullet casing, and tucks it into his back pocket, like a bizarre and macabre memento. Climbing to his feet, he doesn't spare her a backward glance when he walks to the edge of the building and leaps gracefully from the side.  


* * *

**_1970 - outside of Saigon, South Vietnam_ **

It was raining again. The young man leans his head out the small hut, feeling the heavy drops splatter his face. In most scenarios, the feel of rain on his skin would be a refreshing relief. In Vietnam, it was another form of sweat, leaving behind a warm residue. He shakes his head, his lank brown hair throwing droplets of water as it swings. He sighs and rubs his face, trying to scrub away the exhaustion clinging to his limbs. For the past 19 hours, he's been at this post, in the middle of this godforsaken juggle, waiting for a signal from his captain. It should have come hours ago.

Tucked behind the trees, the Soldier could feel the water leaking into the combat boots. He was dressed for jungle surveillance, his fatigues dark green, his face streaked with black and green paint, a poncho covering his body from the worst of the rain. And the rain was torrential, the blinding sheets of water creating a muddy mess that was nearly impossible to navigate. Logically, the Winter Soldier understood his feelings on a mission were irrelevant, but he was uncomfortable in this environment. He would be relieved when the task ended.

His mission was simple. Remove each remaining link in the Americans last communication line, both the person and machine. Systematically, he infiltrated three hideouts located deep in the jungle, and before they knew what happened, he slit the throats of each soldier, leaving behind three smashed radio transmitters and three crumpled bodies.

Efficient and deadly, his skill with the knife was second only to his aim behind the barrel of a gun.

Although unnecessary at the moment, he blends seamlessly into the leaves of the forest, his gift for stealth only increasing over the years. He comes in behind the hut, sliding around until he reaches the entrance, and steps into the doorway.

In the dim light of the lantern, he observes something he did not anticipate - two people, not one. The second person was unexpected, and he changes tactics in the blink of an eye, sending a fist into the face of the man at the door, rendering him unconscious, before turning to the woman in the corner.

She sits stationary on a metal box, her back against the wall of the hut, the faded green transmitter balancing on her legs. He strides forward, and with a clenched fist, he smashes the metal fingers through the top of the transmitter, grasping the wires and ripping them out. The palms of her hands grip the sides of the radio tightly as he jerks it, and she seems to help, holding it in place for him to finish the job. He throws the wires to her side, and pulls the transmitter from its perch on her knees, throwing it out the door behind him, where it lands with a squelch, sinking deep into the ever-present mud.

He spares her a cursory glance, but she is not on his list, so he turns back to the man on the floor, his job still unfinished. Pulling a serrated knife from his belt, he flips it reflexively into his preferred position, leaning down to grab the man's hair and expose his throat. He is surprised when he feels a vicious kick to his arm, and looks up in annoyance to see her glaring down at him. A low growl rumbles from his chest, but is quickly silenced by the rage in her eyes.

"God dammit Bucky Barnes, stop! Stop! You do not get to end this life, look at him. _Look at him_. _Look at him._ " She hisses at him, spitting the words in his face through clenched teeth.

Outside of Hydra, there were few people in his memory who have spoken to him this way and lived. It was a testament to the interest she sparked, that she remained standing. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who the hell Bucky Barnes was, it was a word that sounded distantly familiar. He pushed away his question for the moment, and grudgingly obliged her, turning back to look at the man's face, visible now in the dim lamplight.

He froze. It was a young face, shaggy brown hair falling over his forehead and curling to rest on his shoulders. A straight nose, the stubble of dark hair covering a strong jaw. While he hadn't seen a mirror in years, he had seen his reflection often enough in street windows or car doors, to have a general picture.

Imprinted within the boy's features, he saw himself. If the boy opened his eyes right now, the Soldier felt certain, without knowing how or why, that they would be blue. He dropped the young soldier back to the ground, feeling his fingers burn, and he lurches to his feet, overwhelmed with panic.

"What is this?" he breathes, spinning to look at her again, his knife gripped tight in his sweaty hand. She watches him carefully, and seems strangely satisfied with his reaction.

"His name is James. His mother was your sister, Rebecca Barnes. He is your nephew."

The Winter Soldier is shaking his head as her words wrap around him, slamming into the front of his skull. He doesn't understand what they mean, the phrases don't make sense. Rebecca. Sister. Nephew. Barnes. He raises a hand to his chest, feeling the sharp ache spreading inside. Her words feel heavy with importance, and if he could hide them away and bring them back later to examine in detail, he might begin to comprehend their context.

He looks at the woman, the sensation of pure frustration crawling up his spine. He knows with every fibre of his being, that this may be one of the most important things he's ever heard, but he can't figure out _why_. His twists his metal fingers roughly in his hair and he pulls hard, searching for a trigger, a mechanism, a flash of pain, _something_ , to help him remember.

He needs to return to the pick-up point, his time is running out. If he doesn't go back, they will search every corner of the earth until they find him. They always find him. He doesn't know why, but he knows they can't find the boy.

He makes a snap decision. Reaching down, he rips the sleeve from the boy's shirt, and holds his wrist tightly, drawing his knife upward and carving a shallow cut into his forearm. He hears her start to make a noise behind him, but she goes silent, realising his intent, as the hot, sticky blood coats his blade.

Standing, he shoves the bloodied knife back into his belt. He turns to look at her, an overwhelming feeling of recognition beginning to seep through a tiny fissure in his brain, but there is no point. Their time is up.

The words come hesitantly, unsure after decades of unuse.

"Thank you."

She stares at him sadly, before bowing her head. He stumbles from the hut, boots sinking into the thick mud, as he hurries away.  


* * *

**_1993 - Istanbul, Turkey_ **

The call to prayer breaks the silence of the early evening, a calming sound issuing from hundreds of minarets across the city, as the faithful are summoned to worship. The sky is a swirl of bright blue and translucent pink and deep orange, as the last fingers of light from the sinking sun dance across the peaceful waters of the Bosphorus.

The dusty car is parked in a barren lot near the water, and the woman stands in the fading sunlight, soaking it in and taking long, calming breaths. Working for the UN's Human Rights Council, she has spent much of her professional career seeing humanity at its worst. Today was no different. After years of undercover investigation, watching the systematic abuse of women and children, worked nearly to death in the rural factory, she finally obtained enough information to bring formal charges against the perpetrators. 

She is well aware the ammunition facility at the Syrian border is nothing more than a front for more nefarious Hydra operations, but this investigation is the first nail in the coffin, so they can gain support to begin tearing down the operation. Success is a heady feeling, and she smiles weakly to herself. She slowly unlocks the car door, ducking her head under the frame, and settling into the rough cloth seat. She leans back against the dingy headrest, and closes her eyes for a moment.

The sound is like a miniature sonic boom, when he smashes his fist through her window, raining broken bits of glass into her lap, slicing her arms. Her scream is cut short when his cold metal hand wraps securely around the delicate skin of her throat, squeezing hard as he presses her head back against the seat. Her fingers scrabble uselessly at his arm, and he lets his gaze drift out of focus as he holds tight, the thousand-yard stare of the weary soldier etched in every line of his face.

Another woman watches from a distance, feels her knees give way as she sinks to the ground, the exhaustion sweeping through her. The epic tragedy of the life of James Buchanan Barnes threatening to pull her under. She is so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of caring so damn much. Tired of trying to rebuild their relationship from scratch every single time she meets him.

She could just give up and give in. Allow him to lose any resemblance to the man who was Bucky Barnes, it would be easier that way.

Or she can continue to tiptoe through the years, seeking him at every opportunity, and picking up the pieces he leaves behind.

There's no real way to rationalise her behaviour. There's no choice, there's only ever been one way forward. She curses herself under her breath, but it doesn't change her answer. She stays with him.  


* * *

**_2009 - Odessa, Ukraine_ **

Natasha Romanov was having a bad week. After eight days on the road, ten different check-points, and four fake identities, they were nearly at the Shield operation in Odessa. It had been a slow, painful trip out of Iran, where she had picked up the man, a nuclear engineer and former Hydra operative, to bring him in to Shield, where he promised divulge all classified secrets under the comfort of their witness protection program.

Feeling a nervous tick starting behind her eye, she sighed. She wanted this over, wanted to get on the first plane out of the Ukraine. There was far too much here reminding her of her past, and dipping into those memories was something Natasha Romanov avoided at all costs.

The engineer was valuable, but insufferable. He was constantly leering at her, mumbling filthy statements under his breath in languages he didn't believe she understood. Her legs itched to put him in the death grip he deserved, but she reluctantly refrained. Let Nick Fury decide if his life held any value. If not? Then she could re-evaluate her approach. Settling back into the seat, she turned to look out the window, watching the rocky landscape twist and turn, as they drove along the coast.

The engine of the motorcycle rumbled to a stop as he parked the bike on the side of the road, his heel dropping the kick stand to prop it up. He swung his body from the machine, and reached down to pull the rifle from where it was nestled below the seat.

He was burning beneath the hot sun. The tactical gear was top of the line, from the tips of his black boots, to the intricate straps and pockets of the vest holding no small number of knives and grenades, to the mask and black goggles covering his face, but even for the Winter Soldier, donning all black in the scorching heat was never comfortable.

Planting himself in the middle of the road, he waited patiently for the truck to come into view, his rifle cocked and held loosely in his left hand. His mind contemplates the mission, the elimination of a Hydra agent. He does not know what the man has done, what crime he's committed, to fall so far from grace. Their reasons are rarely shared with him, only the orders. In the detached way of thinking he had cultivated over the decades, he wonders briefly if there will come a time when Hydra ends his life in this way. He knows there is no plan for this, unless the day arrives when the machine he so despises and the ten words he longs to never hear again, were no longer effective on him.

The idea of death brings him no fear, quite the opposite in fact. A simple source of comfort in the never-ending torture of his life.

Two minutes later, he watches the truck coming down the highway, hugging the cliff face at each curve, skidding away from the rocky drop on the opposite side. He lowers the gun, takes aim, and fires the first bullet, hitting the front tire. The truck jerks as the rubber explodes, but the driver manages to keep the vehicle on the road, steering into the skid. He adjusts his aim, and fires the second bullet, hitting the back tire, sending a second explosion of rubber into the air. The truck has turned 90 degrees, sliding sideways towards him. He takes his final aim, and fires the third bullet, busting the other front tire, and sending the vehicle rolling down the side of the cliff.

He lowers the barrel, and walks calmly forward, to look over the edge. Fastening his grip on the gun, he steps forward, and slides down the rocky surface.

The driver has pulled herself from the cab, and is balanced on her hands and knees, coughing as the smoke begins to billow from under the hood. He notices a trickle of blood running down her temple, but she staggers to her feet, watching him with wary eyes. He sweeps his view along the wreckage, before finding a redheaded woman, hunched over his target, shielding the man from view. He nearly laughs at the absurdity. As if that would matter. The Soldier brings the gun to his shoulder, lining up the shot.

Before he can pull the trigger, through the sounds of popping, burning metal, and floating through the swirl of black smoke, he hears a voice. The driver is shouting two words at him, repeating the phrase again and again.

" _Red room_."

He is taken aback by this. Is it supposed to mean something? The redhead on the ground doesn't lift her face, paying no attention to the shouting, and he expects her eardrums were shattered in the crash.

And then he hears the same words again, but in a more familiar language.

The Russian falls awkwardly from her tongue, it's rusty and without the proper accent, but he recognises the words now, easily putting them into the necessary context. The meaning smashes into his brain, triggering images of little girls, of dancing, of death.

She is walking toward him now, still coughing, and trading her broken Russian for English. "Stop James, remember her, _you know her_. Don't destroy her in this mess."

As she walks forward, he automatically backs away, a nameless fear building inside of him for the first time he could ever remember, believing that whatever words she uttered next could change his life completely. There was a single bullet left in the chamber, and he needed to finish this. He turns away from her, and raises the gun, eyes scanning the redhead to find the right placement. _There_. He focuses, squeezes the trigger, and hears her scream as the bullet punches through her skin, missing every vital organ, and embedding itself in the engineer's brain.

His eyes flicker back to the driver before he turns to go. She stands up straight, pushing her hair away from her face, and he can see her breathing harshly. He watches the way her mouth moves, shaping words he doesn't expect or understand. His nostrils flare for a moment, hidden behind the mask, and they stare each other down, before he strides away, leaving the wreckage behind.

Reaching his bike, he kicks it to life, and speeds away, his brain turning over the words he saw falling from her lips, and wondering what on earth they meant.

 _"Just a little longer."_  


* * *

**_Today_ **

It was quiet in the common room, a comfortable silence as Bucky and Steve sat together, needing nothing more than the others company.

His voice low and curious, it was Steve who brought it up. He tells Bucky about the strangest feeling he had the other day, when he met the newest member of the team. There was something about her, he couldn't put his finger on it, but she seemed so familiar, like a photograph he had seen years ago, but forgotten the context in which it was taken. He could have sworn he knew her, but couldn't place how, the edges of her silhouette felt burned and blurred, keeping her unrecognisable.

It had taken him several days of debating in his head before he figured it out, and he recalls the story to Bucky, who listens with confusion in his eyes.  


 

> **_1929 - Brooklyn, New York_ **
> 
> His nose gushing blood, his knuckles scratched raw, Steve Rogers felt his jaw snap back as the older boy's fist connected with a crack. He stumbled backward, tripping over a trash can and catching himself on the grimy brick wall of the alley, before turning back to face his attacker, panting as he raised his fists back to shield his face.
> 
> The sound of the commotion brings the young girl to the doorway, and she steps outside to see what is causing the racket. She sees the small skinny boy, his blond hair flapping across his face as he tried to dodge the fists repeatedly flying at his face. Without missing a beat, she reached to the ground and scraped up a handful of pebbles from outside her door, flinging them at the window opposite and above her, the small rocks hitting the glass with a satisfying ping. In a moment, the window is unlatched and thrown open, and Bucky Barnes leans out the frame. He hears a shout and looks down to see Steve take a punch in the stomach, and without hesitation, he climbs out the window, clambering down the fire escape, landing lightly on the ground, and sprinting toward the boys at the end of the alley. The older boy is pulling back to deliver another blow, when Bucky catches his wrist, spinning him around and smashing a fist into his face with a crunch. The boy howls in pain, his hands flying to his nose when blood immediately pours out.
> 
> "Get out of here! Go pick on somebody your own size!" Bucky shouts, shoving him roughly to the side. The boy stumbles away, making a wet snuffling sound as he pinches his nose, trying to stem the bleeding. Bucky turns back to Steve, exasperated as ever.
> 
> "Why didn't you shout for me?"
> 
> Steve is panting heavily, his hands resting on his knees as he catches his breath, before he looks up at Bucky with a smirk. "Because I had him on the ropes, Buck," came the standard reply, to which Bucky simply sighs.
> 
> Both boys turn toward the girl in the doorway, who is still watching them with a small smile on her face.
> 
> "Thanks for the help, good thing you were here!" Bucky grins brightly at her. She shakes her head, indicating it was no problem, and Bucky is struck by her face. It's one he doesn't think he could ever forget.  
> 

The realisation hits Bucky like a freight train, the blinding flash of understanding crashing down around him, stealing his breath. The puzzle pieces begin to settle in place.

 _He remembers her._ The nameless face connected to his shadow all this time, tracing his footsteps across the decades, she was the one holding desperately onto the threads of humanity he kept cutting, trying with all her might to keep them knotted together. For the first time in more than 70 years, the fog lifts and Bucky can see clearly what has been in front of him the entire time.

He finds her on the roof, standing silence and watching the stars, wrapped in a blue plaid blanket. He skids to a halt and stares, drinking in her image, the waves cresting and breaking again and again.

"How?" he whispers, the only word he can manage.

She turns slowly to face him, and when he sees her face this time, the rest of the world fades completely away, leaving only her behind. She smiles sadly.

"It's just time," she explains quietly. "My real life is here, set in this time, but I was given the ability to move through it. I always knew we would end up here today, on this rooftop, but I didn't know what it would take to get us here. The first time I saw you was in Brooklyn, in 1929. When I saw you defend Steve, when I looked in your eyes, that was it. I wanted to be part of your life, no matter what path it took."

The memories come fast and thick for him now, individual moments flashing brighter than others. A handful of pebbles in Brooklyn. A sweltering alleyway in Budapest. An American flag blowing in a warm Texas breeze. The feel of rainwater filling his boots in Vietnam. A colourful sky in Istanbul. The smell of burning rubber in Ukraine. Every mission, every victim, every attempt.

_He remembers all of them._

If he were the kind of man who still believed in God, he would call her a guardian angel. A voice of compassion and reason sent to protect every soul he touched. She wasn't _his_ angel, but with a rush of understanding, Bucky realises she was a mediator for the lives of those around him. He walks slowly toward her, each step he takes bringing him closer to the light, after a lifetime spent in the darkness. He reaches her, close enough to touch if she would possibly allow him, and he collapses to his knees. 

"You were real? I thought you were an angel, a figment of my imagination," he chokes on the words as they fall with a broken sob. "I didn't know. I never knew, I never realised."

She reaches out her hand, the soft skin of her palm cupping his cheek, her thumb stroking lightly over his chapped lips, and Bucky leans into the touch instinctively, his hands reaching up and clasping hers. The tears are running down his face, dripping down her fingertips, and he can't stop them.

"It's real. It's finally real. I'm here and so are you." He raises his eyes to hers, waiting for anything she can offer him, the vibrant blue searching her face. She whispers.

"I've waited lifetimes for you." She leans down to press her lips gently to his, tasting the salt of his tears.

 


End file.
